


Rauðr

by twistedrunes



Category: Vikings (TV)
Genre: Blood and Injury, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M, Threats of Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-20
Updated: 2019-01-20
Packaged: 2019-10-13 06:20:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,893
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17482769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/twistedrunes/pseuds/twistedrunes
Summary: Prompt:Vikings, y/n pretending to be weak when a Khal wants to kill her for an offence but then shocks everyone by being a highly skilled fighter surprising everyone (any Vikings would be a witness you choose) maybe they help her as well?





	Rauðr

**Author's Note:**

> rauðr - is old Norse for red-haired

Bjorn lay on the floor of the cabin, fever burning his body. Dreams and fragments of memories haunting him.

_He’s chasing Erica, red hair trailing behind her as she looks back over her shoulder, laughing. She had beaten him in a sword fight as she always did, sitting on his chest and holding her sword to his neck. But this year he’d grown and so had manage to flip her on her back. She’d kissed him quickly, catching him off-guard just long enough to scramble out from under him._

_She was the most beautiful girl he had ever seen. Each year when her mother came to visit his, Erica came too. Every year he looks forward to the summer more. He closes the distance between them and his fingers graze her dress, she laughs as she ducks under his arm and changes direction. His fingers close around air and he trips, falling heavily in the soft spring grass. He can hear his father and uncle laughing down by the shore of the lake. But he doesn’t care. Erica jogs back and squats down beside him and holds out her hand. “You planning on lying there all day?”_  

\----------------

The gob of spit sits on the Earl’s eyebrow, dripping onto his eyelid as he backhands you. The top table had fallen silent when you spit in the Earl’s face after his fingers had worked into your rich auburn hair, bringing a strand to his face to sniff it. The entire hall, your hall, silent at the sound of his skin striking yours. He uses his sleeve to wipe his face as you regain your senses. You straighten quickly holding his eye with ferocious defiance.

The Earl looks around the hall, filled with his own men. Your men, your father’s men piled up outside in pyres burning. The stench of their burning flesh filling your nostrils and turning your stomach. He laughs, it’s hollow and empty, a mockery of mirth. Everything about him is a poor imitation, his power, his wealth all stolen from others. “It seems the girl has spirit yet!” He cries lifting his goblet towards the ceiling. A raucous cheer and the banging of tankards on the table rises in reply. The Earl holds up his hand to quiet the crowd. He stands and takes a handful of your hair in his hand, yanking on it to move you towards the door. “Where was that spirit, girl, when we raided? Why did you not take up arms like your parents?” He mocks as he crosses the room, tugging you along with him. He pauses for a moment, allowing the jeers from his men to assault you, before calling out. “Fritjof!”

A young man steps forward from the crowd, he’s young, barely a beard to speak of and his armband still shiny and new. “Father?”

“Come here, boy.” The Earl motions to his son with his free hand. The boy comes meekly to his father. “In honour of your first battle, you shall have the choicest of the spoils.” The noise from the assembled Vikings is deafening as the Earl drags you from the hall.

As you stumble through the dark towards your home, the one the Earl had claimed as his own as soon as the battle was over, he hurls insults at you, your family, and your father. But it’s the memory of your own mother’s last words which fills your ears. “Do not fight them, they are too many. Bide your time, let them think you weak and powerless. They will underestimate you. Then, when you see your opportunity, run. Run to Kattegat and Bjorn.” You chastise yourself for your earlier outburst, for not heading your mother’s words, unused to playing at being subservient to any man, least of all a man so unfit to lead.

As soon as you enter your home you collapse on the floor, curling yourself into a ball and wailing, making yourself seem as weak and pathetic as possible. The Earl looks down on you coldly “Stop your noise girl, you have the honour of my son in your bed tonight.” He turns to his son, “Have her. If you like her we will take her back as a slave. If not she can stay here and rot.” With that he leaves, the door slamming shut behind him. The young man stands rooted to the spot, silent. You can hear the Earl instructing men on the other side of the door telling them to stand guard. The young man remains silent and still in the middle of the floor.

 _Bide your time._  You sit up, wiping your hands over your face to brush away your tears before taking a clean linen drying by the fire to wipe your face clean. You look up at the Fritjof, eyes as wide as possible, “May I get you some mead?” He doesn’t reply. You get to your feet slowly and walk to the larder. “It’s much better than the mead in the hall, it’s my father’s personal stock.” You explain taking a mug from the shelf and pouring some in. You hold it out to him.  He steps forward and takes it, you notice the slight tremor in his hand.

 _They will underestimate you._  He turns his back on you as he takes a sip. You set the jug back on the shelf and scurry around him, your hands tugging lightly at his sleeves. “How rude of me, please take a seat. Here, by the fire, a seat for honoured guests.” You chatter softly.

“It’s good,” Fritjof says holding up the mug of mead.

 _When you see your opportunity._ You smile sweetly and nod taking the mug from him “Here let me refill it for you.” You refill the mug, with your back to Fritjof, adding a few drops of the sleeping draught your mother made for your father when the pains of his past glories gnawed at him and kept him from sleep. You smile sweetly as you turn back to Fritjof, “It’s my mother’s special recipe handed down from her mother.” You explain pushing the mug into his hand.

_Run._

\-------------------

In the early morning light, the valley glows with an ethereal blue, the snow silencing the dawn activities of the creatures of the forest. Bjorn rolls his shoulder against the stiffness brought on by the cold. He winces as the cauterised flesh tugs. He watches a deer on the edge of the forest below, sniffing the air for predators. For a moment he considers stalking it, before changing his mind. He had done what he came here to do, he had survived; he had slain a bear and defeated the Berserker’s sent to kill him. He was a man. His own man, not merely a son of Ragnar. He was Bjorn Ironside and it was time to go home.

Standing he looks at the deer again, watching as it is startled and bolts across the snow-covered lake. His attention shifts focus as he hears the roar of a man. His eyes scan the tree line looking for the source of the noise. A flash of fiery red passes between the trees. He takes a few steps forwards, sure he’s seeing things. Another longer, anguished roar rolls up the mountainside to his position and again he glimpses the flash of red between the trees. Bjorn’s heart begins pounding, he begins his descent down the mountain towards the noise. Axe drawn in one hand, knife in the other.

\----------------

Acting on instinct you spin and duck, facing your assailant, barely taking in his features you plunge your knife into his side. His mouth drops open and eyes widen as he realises what’s happened, his eyes travel from your hand to his own, still clutching the handful of your hair. Taking advantage of his surprise you yank the blade free and drive it in, higher this time, between his ribs and into his lung. The wound making a sucking sound as you remove the blade preparing to strike again. In desperation, the man swings his fist, but he’s dying in front of you and so his blow is delivered with much less power than he would have liked. A minute ago the same blow would have killed you. Now, it simply stunned you, ears ringing and vision clouding, desperately you plunge your knife into his neck. Hot blood spurts over your hand as you fall against each other sinking to the ground. He collapses against you, his weight forcing you backwards, his hand clutching at his throat. Trapped between the earth and the dead weight of the man you lay stunned. Unable to do anything but listen to him gurgle, watch the light fade from his eyes, and feel the heat of his piss and blood soak your tunic.

Relieved to have put down the last of the men the Earl had sent after you, you lay for a moment focusing on your breath. The sound of something, someone, crashing through the undergrowth sharpens your senses instantly.  You yank the knife from your enemy’s neck, turning your face just in time to avoid the gush of blood that follows. You push against the lifeless form above you, but your limbs are like logs, stiff and unyielding. Deciding to play dead you close your eyes and hope you have the advantage of surprise.  

The sound of pounding feet halts next to your head replaced heavy breathing. You adjust the knife in your hand ready to attack. You concentrate hard, trying to locate the man’s foot. Thrusting out with your hand you plunge the knife down hoping to incapacitate the man by stabbing him in the foot.

“Fuck!” a voice cries. The sound of scrabbling and the lack of resistance against your blade tell you you’ve missed. You tense in preparation for the coming attack.

“Erica?” the voice asks above you, before a grunt and you feel the weight of the dead man slide off you.

Opening your eyes cautiously, you look up. Bjorn Ironside stands above you. He’s changed in the years since you’d last seen him, taller and broader. “Bjorn?”

“Are you injured?” He asks squatting down in front of you, brushing the hair back from your forehead.

“No, not really.” You reply, overwhelmed to see the familiar face of the warrior in front of you.

“Are there more? What’s going on?” He asks, scanning the area. He extends his hand out towards you.

Waving it away you groan as you sit up, slumping forward with your elbows on your knees, knife dangling from your fingers, the tip resting between your feet. “No, that was the last of them. What are you doing here?”

“I came to help.” Bjorn grins, “But, not much has changed I see.” He chuckles, unable to hide how pleased he is to see you.

“Earl Karlsson attacked the village, I escaped.” You say quietly. “Mother and father were killed. I was on my way to Kattegat to get help.”

Bjorn kneels in front of you, taking you in his arms and holding you close, his fingers running through your hair. “I’m so sorry, we’ll go together.” He says sitting back on his heels.

You nod and stand holding out your hand towards him. “Well then come on, or are you planning on staying there all day?”

**Author's Note:**

> I welcome and appreciate comments, questions and feedback, including constructive criticism, if you would prefer to discuss more privately message me on Tumblr [Twistedrunes](https://twistedrunes.tumblr.com/)


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